


oh! the places you'll go

by Saul



Series: Raven!Andrew AU [1]
Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Gen, Raven!Andrew, happy ending?? ahaha hah ah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8047501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saul/pseuds/Saul
Summary: The Raven's stonewall goalkeeper, numbered six by Riko's hand, was not to be trusted.





	oh! the places you'll go

**Author's Note:**

> aside from canon-typical violence and dark themes, this part is fairly clean. andrew is a messy child and riko is a terrible influence, however, so you may want to proceed with caution.
> 
> I don't know?! what happened??!? a lovely anon prompted raven!Andrew and so, here we are. honestly, I'd like to thank all the raven!neil fics I excessively stalk for inspirations on Nest happenings, you guys are the real mvps.

In an abandoned locker room one stretch of hallway from an eventful Winter Formal, a racquet swung from the dark and caught Neil in the gut.

Unarmored and unsuspecting, he fell. From the corner of his eye, doubled over and clutching his throbbing stomach as he was, he saw Jean Moreau pause, glance back, and continue out. 

In his head rang: Kevin has your ticket, Nathaniel. Jean’s three to Kevin’s two burned in his mind’s eye.

What Neil said was: “Round two? The Ravens are a bunch of overachievers.”

The words are embarrassingly strained, more gasps than speech. Still. He managed. That was satisfying enough.

“Since you can’t spot an opening on court, I don’t blame you for not being able to tell us apart.” The racquet’s netting tapped against his cheek, gentle and insulting. “Come now. Stand up. Are you always this dramatic?”

Neil looked up.

He didn’t have to look too far - the man in front of him wasn’t tall to start with, and he leaned forward as if inspecting a particularly nasty piece of roadkill. A six stood out stark and black on his cheek. A lazy smile pulled his mouth up on the edges, but this close (and without the aid of stage make-up or an adoring camera), it wasn’t hard to see how fake the grin was. This close, Neil would say he almost looked familiar.

Not that many reporters sought Andrew Day for an interview even after his debut in Riko’s perfect Court. He was the blandest Raven on the starting line. Rare as it was to pry answers out of him about the simplest topics, those he did give were so blatantly scripted even the best journalist struggled to make it sound anything besides scathingly sarcastic. With the tight hold the Raven’s PR team kept on the press, little beyond a nod to Kevin’s great uncle adopting a troubled foster kid was known about Andrew’s past.

Kevin hadn’t mentioned his adopted cousin much in person, either. Part of that was because Riko consumed his thoughts; the other, Neil thought, was because the subject of the other Day presented a real chip in Kevin’s pride.

He’d been willing to delve extensively into Andrew’s stats, though. Kevin was sure Andrew was worth a number higher than six.

(The few games Andrew was allowed to play agreed with his assessment. The problem was, Kevin said, Andrew often refused to play no matter how Riko, his teammates, or the Master tried to encourage him.)

This was his first time speaking directly with Andrew. He’d shown up to the dinner, but he hadn’t said a word or looked up from his plate.

Looking at the man now, with his lopsided grin and deadened eyes, Neil refused to be intimidated.

Andrew hummed.

“Alert the press. Neil Josten’s finally shut up.”

Neil caught his breath and opened his mouth.

The racquet caught him across the cheek and sent him sprawling. His whole face felt numb. Warm, thick copper slipped down his throat.

What was this guy thinking? They’d both have to go back to the dinner, everyone would know Andrew had done this to him.

Number six, apparently, didn’t care.

“No, no. Stay silent. I prefer it.” The man swung the racquet up to stretch across his shoulders, his broad shoulders and slicked black hair blocking the harsh light from Neil. “You don’t have to say much of anything, anyway. I need a favor, Mr. Josten.”

That.

Was not what Neil had expected.

“Are you serious?” He could barely feel his mouth moving, but he heard his own voice, offended and angry. “After hitting me with a racquet? You want a favor from me?”

Andrew tsked. “So very dramatic. It was little more than a love tap.”

“Whatever it is, the answer’s no.”

“Ah, ah. You don’t know what’s good for you. I’ve heard that.” Neil pushed himself up. Surprisingly, Andrew let him. He didn’t even take a step back to give Neil space. Instead he continued, his words flat and expression disdainful. “And now, having spoken with you for fifteen seconds, I believe it. So, I think I can say what we both know: you’ll be an idiot and come to the Nest for Christmas.”

He wasn’t wrong.

He was also wide open with his arms on his racquet like that. Neil and he stood not an inch apart, Neil refusing to back off and give up the height advantage he had (the goalie never looked small packed in his armor - here was a different story, though the other’s musculature was undeniable). Andrew presumably refused to back off for the same reason. His hostile nonchalance was intimidating, Neil supposed, for the average person.

“You’ll want to do me a favor.” Andrew told him. His breath smelled like the dinner’s red wine. Neil’s nose scrunched from it; pain at last bloomed. “Because then I’ll owe you when you arrive. And, trust me. You’ll want me on your side.”

“I was under the impression the Ravens loved each other,” Neil drawled, unimpressed and unwilling to show how much where Andrew had hit him (and the whole awful, nerve-wrecking night) hurt.

“Ha ha,” Andrew stated. “How funny would you be without a tongue? Riko’s definitely calculated the cost.”

Neil didn’t budge. “What do you want?”

“Number five. Minyard. His address. By the time you arrive at the Nest, I want it in writing. Preferably without anyone else knowing.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “It can be our little secret. Then we both have something on each other.”

Neil’s lip curled. He stymied the wince to follow. “If you were hoping to send him a Christmas card, you could send it to the office like every other creepy secret admirer.”

Andrew clucked his tongue at him, his arm unhooked from his racquet. Neil tensed.

But rather than hit him again, Andrew only gave him a pat on the bruising cheek.

“Lose the contacts, Mr. Josten. You wouldn’t want our grubby fingers plucking them out.”

Numerous feet stamped down the hallway in their direction. Andrew stepped back from Neil, his finger to his mouth and low hush now nearly lost in the encroaching commotion.

When Wymack burst through the door with Dan and Matt hot on his heels, Andrew put all of his teeth on display in a wide, unfriendly grin.

“Oops!” Was his response to Dan’s immediate defense of Neil’s injuries, Andrew dropping the racquet carelessly by the lockers as he shouldered past them. “My hand slipped.”  


. . .

  
Well?

Andrew Day looked askance at him as he drove Neil from the airport to Evermore. The expensive, well-made vehicle purred like an expensive, well-bred feline. It glided through turns and curves under Andrew’s hands, quite possibly from both model and user expertise.

Bare trees lined the scenic drive. Debilitated barns outnumbered populated houses two-to-one, with fallow and farmed fields overtaking both. 

After the first silent twenty minutes had passed, Andrew’s cell-phone beeped with a message from J Moreau. Andrew had checked it but not replied. Five minutes after that, the phone rang. Andrew ignored it. J Moreau cut the call before reaching voicemail.

And still, not a word.

Eyes focused out the window, stomach crowded with fear that the longer Andrew took to deliver him to Evermore, the more Riko would think he was backing out and make good on his threat to tell the Foxes who Nathaniel Wesninski was, Neil stewed in anger. Giving Andrew his teammate’s address was the least of his worries. That Andrew thought it would matter was exactly what Neil would expect from a spoiled, arrogant Raven.

Finally, he broke the silence. “I’m not giving you his address.”

Andrew’s eyebrow raised. He didn’t look surprised; but then, he hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d picked Neil up. Neil had started to wonder if Andrew possessed any expressions other than vague amusement. 

“I don’t know why you want it, but I won’t do your dirty work. Get it yourself.”

“What’s this?” Andrew’s finger tapped against the wheel, his curiousity more insulting for its dismissive quality. “The coward cares about someone?”

“No.” If he wasn’t hanging around the Vixens or being an antagonistic asshat alongside Allison (although he’d been closer with Seth, the grave put Seth far away), Aaron was apathetic beyond measure. But he was part of Neil’s team. And that was enough reason to keep a Raven like Andrew Day away.

Just thinking that made Neil uncomfortable. Like hell he’d say it aloud.

What he did say was: “With how obsessive Ravens are, I don’t want to encourage more bullshit stalking. We get enough from your fans and Riko.”

Andrew tilted his head. “That isn’t why I asked.”

Eyes turned from the passing trees to the driver, Neil frowned. “Then why did you ask?”

The grin grew. He mocked, “Any idiot can find an address,” and hit the gas. Neil fell back into his seat, startled; the car roared down the road, switching from a pretty kitty to a snarling beast. It wasn’t speeding that made the drive a thrill; it was that Andrew didn’t once look toward him again, and in fact seemed to forget he existed altogether. That level of self-obsession made him strangely unthreatening to his passenger.

(What impressed Neil most was that Andrew managed not to be spotted by police.)  


. . .

  
They made it to Evermore in time that annoyed but satisfied Riko.

Neil learned that combination was almost worse. It meant the punishment to follow came from Riko’s enjoyment alone.  


. . .

  
“Where’s Day?”

Jean clapped a hand over his mouth. Cuts made by a knife rubbed too rough along unyielding teeth. Neil, as he was more than bone, flinched.

“You will die when your fate is not tied to mine.” French didn’t belong in this hell-hole, but Jean whispered in it nonetheless. With swollen and reddened eyes, Neil glared.

“Andrew,” Neil hissed, once Jean let him go. He also used French. “Where’s Andrew?”

Jean eyed him suspiciously. But they were alone for the first time in ages, and the man craved any remnant of his time before Evermore, even if it was only in word. “Training with the other goalkeepers, of course. We don’t need a goalkeeper to help your footwork.”

“I never see him in the cafeteria.”

“You never look up from your plate. You eat like a starving animal.”

Neil stomach curdled over the memory of Riko’s spit and fingers in his mouth. He tongued the cuts in his cheek to taste copper, instead. “Who’s his partner?”

“This year, it’s number nineteen. Francis.”

“This year? And here I thought Ravens mated for life.”

“He keeps the freshmen in line. He’s very good at teaching boundaries.” 

Jean’s eyes said he expected Neil to already know as much. Thinking back to the winter formal, Neil couldn’t say he was surprised, though he was shocked one of Riko’s chosen court being relegated to glorified babysitting. 

But then, as Andrew’s last name implied, perhaps he wasn’t entirely Riko’s pick.

Fingers snapped in front of Neil’s nose. He jumped.

Jean’s face was an inch from his. “What concern is Andrew Day to you? We need to gear up.”

They had woken up not five minutes before. Jean’s hair was still damp from a shower, his arms scrubbed raw. Neil wanted to do the same, but they hadn’t the time for both of them to shower in the morning, and Riko didn’t give him the option at night. Jean often threw him in the tub after a session for a quick wash; it was the easiest way to keep the carpets clean.

Sleep tugged at his limbs.

Exhaustion nipped his heels.

He stood, and they moved to the court.  


. . .

  
In one sentence, Riko informed him of everything he needed to know about the Raven’s number six.

“Consider tonight a special treat, courtesy of Andrew Day. Worried? Don’t be. You’ll find he takes entertaining his guests very seriously.” Spoken as the three of them walked down a hallway identical to every other in its dark, claustrophobic make, his body pulled by Riko’s invisible strings. “I’ve a meeting to attend with my uncle. PR wants a statement for a special New Year’s release. You know how it is.”

The consequences for responding out of turn had long outweighed the positives. Though he knew the date for his return flight and understood it couldn’t have been three weeks, he found himself wondering if Riko had lied and did not intend to let him go. If that was the case, there was no telling how long he had been here.

At least the Foxes are safe.

Deep in Evermore’s haze, he had to wonder: was the cost he paid in the Nest worth what Palmetto had given him?

He had to remember Matt and his kindness. Nicky and his genuine concern. Dan and her fierce loyalty. Wymack and giving all of them a second chance with the room to discover themselves. Kevin, who had warned him against this.

Riko stopped them outside a plain door. He gave Neil a wide smile, his expression full of self-satisfaction.

Jean opened the door. When Neil’s feet refused to move - it wasn’t their bedroom, it couldn’t be that bad - Jean shoved him forward.

The room was packed with men and women in their prime. Partly because over half of them were defensive players and looked it, and partly because it wasn’t a large room. Neil and Jean put the body count at eight, with perhaps three strides’ worth of space between any of them.

After a throw-away greeting for Andrew, Riko stepped back and called, “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

The door shut. It did not lock, but then, they rarely locked the bedroom door. The court was never locked.

A physical lock didn’t matter. Neil had his bed by thinking he could get away with a free year at Palmetto. Everything to follow was what he deserved.

Five pairs of eyes - all recognizable, all willful deliverers of Riko’s punishments on the court, all new Ravens hoping to one day make the starting line up - sized Neil up before turning their attention to the short figure standing in their middle. Andrew, his eyes hooded and body leaned back against the wall, never once strayed from Neil. He looked no different than he had the night in the locker room, full on casual violence masquerading as careful control.

Neil felt more than saw Jean step away.

“Moreau,” Andrew said, voice neutral.

“Day,” Jean replied, voice similar.

“No loyalty to your new partner?” Andrew clicked his tongue, though nothing else about him shifted. “What a surprise.”

Jean didn’t take the bait. He sneered, arms folded, and backed up another step. “He won’t last much longer. But as always, you waste time for dramatics. Get on with it.”

Andrew finally shifted his eyes from Neil to Jean. But when he jerked his chin forward, the bulky man at his elbow - Francis, their freshman goalkeeper - moved for Neil.

Francis wasn’t Riko. But too many people stood between Neil and safety, and he was tired and bruised and scabbed and the moment a hand laid on his arm, he shook it off from instinct, the day’s haze clearing for a burst of disgust and ingrained terror. This was it. This was– Riko hurt to humiliate, but this wasn’t Riko, this was an unknown, and it may have been three days or three weeks but Neil had grown almost used to Riko, and believed firmly in better the devil you know.

He heard Andrew say, “Just his shirt,” the tone bored.

He caught Francis in the nose, forcing the man back.

Andrew sighed. “Give him a hand.”

Another tall, broad figure joined the second. Shelby, number forty-seven, freshman dealer. She was quicker with her hands - she had Neil pinned against the wall in a second flat, his weak struggling rendered futile with an arm against his back.

Shirt yanked up, the black fabric blocked the world as two pairs of hands wrestled it off of him. 

“Calm down,” he heard Francis say, “we’re not going to do anything to you.”

That was the biggest lie he’d heard since walking into the Nest, including the lies he’d told himself about Wymack waiting for his return.

He felt hyperaware of how many Ravens stood in this room. With that many hands, they could do anything to him. No one would hear him. No one would come to his aid. At least Riko had an interest in keeping him mobile. With Andrew, he had no idea what to expect.

It was worse than Riko’s knife. Much, much worse.

The room’s stuffy air felt cold without his shirt to cover it. Warmth slid down his side; his cuts re-opened, most likely, or a stitching torn.

“Holy fuck.”

The hands pinning his wrists over his heads loosened. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth (or a Raven in their perceived weakness), Neil tore his hands away.

Amazingly, they let him. Francis and Shelby both backed up a step, hesitance clear on their faces.

Before the Nest, he had given it his all to hide what scarring laid beneath his clothing. With Riko, he had no choice. In the cramped room the old fear came back, spurred on by the freshmen’s horrified gazes. Neil fell back against the wall, his eyes darting between them, blood rushing in his ears and fists held high. As if he had a chance on seven-versus-one. Maybe six-versus-one – without Riko to force him, Jean looked about as ready to get himself involved as he was to throw himself into a fire.

He wanted to demand his shirt back from Francis. Throat squeezed shut by an invisible hand, he couldn’t. What if this was the start of something? He was already so vulnerable. They could see him - his life, old and new, a path of pain easy to follow across his chest.

“He’s what happens when you’ve caught the King’s interest.”

Neil’s eyes, previously jumping between all potential aggressors, stuck to Andrew.

The blond gazed back, impassive and aloof.

“The court’s one thing. Punishment in practice or play is to keep you motivated. To remind you of the stakes.” His eyes disagreed with the carelessness in his voice. He cared about this. He did not take what he had to say lightly. “Can you think of any reason for this?”

Silence. Sounding uncertain and on edge, Shelby volunteered: “Looks like a crash course on discipline. It makes sense. He’s an outsider.”

“Bzzt! Wrong. It’ll be the cane for you.”

“There’s no reason.” Trayvon, number eighty-six. Freshman backliner. He hadn’t even been allowed to practice with the upperclassman, though Neil knew from watching other games that his skill would have put him on the starting line at any other school. “None at all.”

“Ding ding ding. Give the man a cookie. And if you think for a second he's special, you’re deluding yourself. Riko would do this to anyone who crossed his path.”

Word by word, Andrew gained the underclassmen’s attention. By the end of his little speech, all eyes looked to him. They treated his words like gospel, their expressions that of flowers opening under sunlight.

Andrew’s voice dropped. At last he pushed from the wall, his steps slow and sure in Neil’s direction though his words continued to be for them. “It’s fucked up, isn’t it? Having to live out of someone else’s pocket. Being beat because of your partner’s screw ups. Staying down here night after night instead of enjoying your college years. Sure, part of it is training, and that part will ensure you’ll be paid handsomely after your five years in hell are up. But bowing to a violent sociopath? What recognition will that bring?”

“The King never looks at any of us twice,” Francis muttered.

Pausing, Andrew’s eyes snapped to him. 

Francis shrunk under the gaze, his shoulders bowing. Neil swore Francis’s knees started buckling as Andrew diverted from his path and into his space.

“But you want him to.” Spoken with a smile, light and gentle and deadlier than anything Riko had ever said. “And that gives him power. He wants you to run drills until you puke? Fine. He wants you to never contact your sister again? Fine, you need to focus on practice. He wants you to fall in line, to be silent, to say his script on your interviews? Fine, all fine. He wants you to make someone bleed? Fine. Maybe you went too far. Maybe he wanted you to. As long as he wants you to, it doesn't matter. Fine, fine, fine, yes sir, thank you, sir, you're too kind, sir.”

Francis frantically shook his head.

Reaching up, Andrew gave him a pat on the cheek. 

It mirrored what he’d done to Neil in the locker room, and magically, it seemed to calm Francis’s nerves. Andrew turning back to Neil probably helped.

He came within an inch of Neil, effortlessly knocking his hands aside when he lashed out. Neil tried to backpedal, but his back had already hit the rough cement wall, the myriad of slices and lashes on his back scraping. His side, he was sure, continued to bleed.

Andrew murmured with the false intimacy of a concerned friend, “What’s wrong, birdy? You won’t tweet at me now that your wings are clipped?”

“I’m fine,” Neil forced out, voice far more confident than he felt. A lie, and a bold one. “Are you finished with your demonstration?”

“It wasn’t just for their benefit.” He contemplated Neil, the smile for once fading from his face. “You’ve been here a week.”

Neil’s eyes widened.

“Ah. There we are. I thought you’d like that bit of information.”

One week left. One week left.

He could make it. He had to.

Looking at Andrew’s detached curiousity at his reaction, he stifled the relief and grit out, “Do you expect me to thank you?”

The smile returned to Andrew’s face. “Oh, good. The caged bird is remembering the sky. Francis,” a hand raising over his shoulder without glancing back, “his shirt.”

Andrew was not only given his shirt. He instructed Neil, “Arms up,” and when he gave him the look that demand deserved, added flippantly, “or you’ll be walking back to Riko’s room with far less.” Neil believed him enough to sneer, but his pride was gone and the others were watching and– he needed to survive until he was back in Palmetto and Riko was too far away to do him or his harm. Maybe he’d have to abandon Neil Josten, but that was fine. At least then this walking nightmare would be over.

A finger tipped his chin up and brought his attention back in focus on a grinning madman. “Arms. Up.”

Jean broke his silence for a disgusted noise from the corner. Andrew didn’t even look at him.  
Neil raised his arms. Slowly - his stitches on his side pulled, but it wasn’t any worse than receiving the wound had been.

Andrew, absurdly, helped him dress. He snapped his fingers half-way through, one hand holding Neil’s shirt up over the open wound and the other aimed back at his lackeys.

“Kit.”

One of the two that had yet to speak brought the kit. His name was Connor and he was number twenty-two, though that was as much as Neil knew about him. After nodding brief thanks, Andrew instructed Connor through bandaging up Neil’s wound.

It was beyond odd. Neil didn’t like hands on him on a normal night especially after a week of double-days in the Nest, but though he found himself preferring pain over this strange show of Raven-branded gentleness. 

At least it wasn’t a large spot, not comparatively. It didn’t take long to patch. Connor finished quickly and backed up immediately, his eyes roving Neil’s face.

Exhaustion tampered by overwhelming discomfort, Neil met his gaze head-on.

“Step back, twenty-two.”

Instantly Connor did, his eyes dropping to the floor. Andrew finally dropped the corner of Neil’s shirt, straightening it unnecessarily with a quick tug to the hem, and then, without backing off from Neil, instructed the others with a simple, “Wait outside. If the King shows up, give two knocks. I’ll be out in a moment.”

They immediately ducked their heads and filed out.

Andrew’s hand snapped out at one’s approach. “Not you, Moreau.”

“Of course not,” Jean muttered, but hung back.

The door shut behind five figures, their heads bowed toward one another. Neil didn’t waste time watching them go – aching and sore as he was, he needed every head start he got. It was a small room, but he put as much space between Andrew and him as he could as fast as he could. Under his shirt, his skin crawled; they hadn’t molested him, precisely, but the entire situation sparked more questions about what Andrew planned. A demonstration turned lesson wasn’t new in Evermore, except the purpose of that one made no sense.

Andrew watched him crowd into a far-off corner with vague curiousity. Before Neil bit out a challenge full of frayed nerves, Andrew tilted his head in Jean’s direction.

“Spit it out, Moreau.”

“I don’t know what you’re playing at with this little… rebellion.” Jean spoke as if the word was at once distasteful and unbelievable. Making it into a reality was both preposterous and dangerous. “But you’re playing with fire. If you threaten the Raven’s reputation, I won’t support it.”

“The day Jean Moreau takes a stand is the day I happily kiss Riko Moriyama.”

“I haven’t reported you. In this world, that is support.”

In a move unconnected the rest of his expression and stance, Andrew’s lip curled.

“Rebellion is such a strong sentiment. Consider this an educational demonstration.”

Jean guffawed. “That? In the pursuit of education, you’ll have them barred from the bench. And he’ll make sure your punishment will be nearly as bad.”

“Mm.”

Uninterested and dismissive.

Andrew’s eyes found Neil’s. Neil, happier unnoticed, stiffened.

The feeling of familiarity came back. Without the cold smile and imminent danger of stabbing or worse, Neil swore he recognized Andrew.

“He’s going to ask you to sign on. I doubt you’re aware of anything beyond your own precarious situation, but do understand, if you sign, Kevin won’t be long to follow. He never could stand alone.”

As Andrew prowled closer, Neil finally had the time to look him over from top to bottom. The black hid weapons well, but that wasn’t his concern right then. Whether Andrew had a knife on him or not, with Jean and the other five poised to come to his aid, it didn’t matter what Neil did. If he was fully honest with himself - which he tried his best not to be - it didn’t matter what Neil did in any situation: Andrew looked fully capable of overpowering him.

As had become usual, Andrew stopped hardly an inch from Neil’s face. This time, Neil’s eyes strayed up.

Andrew said, “Kevin wasn’t supposed to leave. Our deal wasn’t up. Do you understand where I’m going with this?”

He did, but he didn’t really care. He wouldn’t sign on to the Ravens. It would mean signing his death certificate.

Rather, eyes caught on the glimmer of gold under short black and thoughts scrambling from anything resembling a decision about his future, he blurted, “Are you related to Aaron? Is that why you wanted to know his address?”

By the door, Jean laughed. It wasn’t in a nice sound.

Brushing a hand up through his short black bangs, Andrew made a frown that matched Jean’s laugh in friendliness.

“Oh, dear. Are my roots showing?”

Not expecting to have been right, Neil stared, speechless.

That was, evidently, just fine. Andrew went on with a morose, “I always thought the identical coloring was overkill. And what with the Nest being so busy with your arrival… I must have lost track of the time. A real pity.”

“Andrew,” Jean started, and stopped.

Andrew had cut him off with a hand to Neil’s throat, the grip strong as steel and just as unconcerned at the life beating underneath it. As Neil choked, the other leaned in; his breath wasn’t foul, but the whisper of it against Neil’s ear made him wish he had the space to cringe.

“It’s an uncanny likeness,” Andrew whispered with a false sweetness that reminded Neil uncomfortably of Riko’s, “and an unfortunate one, at that. although I think it’s funny, it’s rather rude for you to talk about.”

“Andrew,” Jean started again, sharper. “He needs to be able to walk.”

An expressionless face blocked Neil’s view of him, Andrew’s eyes flat and smile a careless wisp. The hand at his throat tightened - Neil raised a knee to catch him in the stomach, but Andrew closed the scant distance between them and pressed the whole of his body against Neil, effectively pinning him. He may have been shorter, but he had at least fifty pounds on Neil, not to mention good health.

It hurt. Riko, he had spent a week learning. Andrew was a new beast, one that apparently didn’t care about Riko’s expectations. At that very moment, looking into his eyes, Neil wasn’t convinced Andrew intended for him to walk away from their meeting.

“I wasn’t there for the main event, but I saw the aftermath. I saw how Riko broke him.” Spoken conversationally, as if Neil wasn’t literally fighting to live. “To think, all it took was one swing, and down the mighty Kevin Day crumbled.”

What?

Food for thought for later. Right then, Neil’s fingers dug into the ones wrapped around his throat. His mouth gaped, his lungs burned. Precious seconds passed with him suspended on Andrew’s whim. Black spots danced at the corners of his eyes, his fingers slipping from his attacker’s, his thoughts spilling into a desperate need for air.

And then, given like a gift: the hand opened, and air rushed in. He was on his knees coughing through a bruised windpipe within seconds. Andrew stepped neatly out of his way, his thumbs tucked carelessly into his back pockets.

All Neil saw as he regained his breath were Andrew’s boots. They were scuffed on the edges and lined with dirt, though it was difficult for Neil to fathom Andrew Day racing around in a field.

Two sharp knocks rattled through the door. Jean at last hurried to Neil’s side.

Turning without a second’s hesitation but not missing the opportunity to clip Jean’s shoulder as he passed, Andrew threw his final order over his shoulder.

“Bring Minyard up again, Mr. Josten, and I’ll give you a wrist to match Kevin’s.”

It was the last words Neil heard from Andrew. When they met again on the court, he was silent, immobile block in the goal. When they passed each other in the hall, if Neil was lucid enough to know who even passed him, Andrew spared him no glance.

Riko took one look at the ring of bruises around Neil’s throat and another at the loosened stitches and smudges of blood down his side, and thanked Andrew.

Jean remained silent. His eyes told Neil to do the same.

Without another option, Neil did.  


. . .

  
The Foxes didn’t have a good season.

Fact. In all their time of being a Class I team, they had reached Spring championships exactly once. They reached that point only after the introduction of a strict ex-Raven to the team and the subsequent motivation that came from a spiteful group of individuals finding a well-deserving target. The administration rode Wymack’s ass about results, and try as he might, give these kids a second chance only went so far when it came to the university’s budget.

The Foxes didn’t play well together, a fact marginally improved after the abject terror displayed on Kevin’s face during Riko’s surprise appearance on Kathy’s Show. The positives from that moment were twofold: first, Seth Gordon stopped bitching about obsessive Exy dedication during practice, and second, he also stopped ganging up with Aaron Minyard to belittle Kevin at every opportunity. 

Nevertheless, Jaime Smalls continued to skip both practice and her medication. At games, she froze up so seriously that she spent more time locked in the bathroom than on the bench. The episodes grew worse as the year progressed and the Foxes advanced through the brackets.

Meanwhile, Matt Boyd rode a drugged high up to and often including the first quarter of any given game. According to Dan Wilds, he was working on it. According to Allison, he’d struggled with addiction before, and had been almost completely clean until the fifth years had gotten their claws in him. 

As he’d been working on it since Neil’s arrival, he didn’t have much faith. Matt was a good guy, mellow and kind at any time and in any state, but then, Neil hadn’t seen him attempt to outlast withdrawal.

That the Foxes made it to the Spring championships was a miracle that could not last.

Riko didn’t tell him that. Kevin told him in his silence as Aaron left practice to meet Katelyn. In his averted eyes when Matt could barely track the ball. In remaining silent in the face of Seth’s laughter. In pushing Neil, and only Neil, harder, and giving up on the others.

The Foxes’ futile struggle for success was self-evident.

Why Wymack didn’t give up, Neil didn’t understand. 

Why Wymack came for him after his winter break at Evermore, Neil didn’t understand.

Why he offered Neil his couch and brought Abby in and gave him space and gave him comfort, Neil’s fingers curled tight in Wymack’s shirt front, his eyes burning and the keen crawling out of his throat worse than anything he’d uttered in Riko’s presence, Neil didn’t understand. 

He understood enough to say, “I’m sorry.”

Stern and sincere, Wymack told him, “Don’t be.”

But the apology wasn’t just for clinging to him while he stained Wymack’s cotton blue shirt red. It was for weighing the Foxes’ future and the newly inked mark on his cheek, on the static in his head and the likelihood of reaching the end of the year, on what he had seen of Jean and what Andrew aimed to make of Riko.

He didn’t fit in there. He wasn’t and wouldn’t be a Raven.

But neither was he a Fox.  


. . .

  
He ran.  


. . .

  
“You won’t survive telling,” Kevin had once told him, hushed and afraid of speaking too loud lest the empty stadium walls have ears. “Not when the Masters find out what you’ve done.”

“I know.”

“But you’ll still do it?”

“I have to.”

Kevin had shaken his head, his shoulders rigid. The fingers of his right hand had shifted to brush the delicate, broken bones of his left. 

They had no one to tell. Kevin agreed: Neil had barely a chance to make it to the end of the year without going out of his way to incriminate his father’s employers. 

The Foxes had no chance of beating the Ravens. They’d lost the Fall match at one to twenty-three, and their prospects had only grown worse the closer they drew to spring. Kevin loudly doubted they would win a single match in the second half of season, much to Dan’s irritation and everyone else’s disinterest. Soon enough there wouldn’t be practice to bother with, and they all knew it.

“You’re a fool,” Kevin told him, fingers still wrapped around his wrist. The sentiment held meaning for more than Neil. They both knew it. “You’re going above your station.”

That was true.

But if he couldn’t finish his year with Exy, he would finish it with making his life count.  


. . .

  
Black folder filled with money, contacts and articles tarnished by reality tucked in a ragged duffel bag, he ran.

Hitch-hiking to Columbia wasn’t difficult. Getting himself to walk into the police station and actively talk with a cop was. At first they clearly didn’t believe him, but after an hour of cross-connecting calls and higher up confirmations, he was ushered into a holding room and told to wait, the men and women in blue tip-toeing around him like he was the bomb.

That was fine. It was better to wait in silence than speak further with them, even if the windowless walls pressed in around him.

As he waited, he thought of the defeat in Kevin’s eyes. It had been rough after Kathy’s show, the first face-to-face meeting with Riko poking a blatant hole in his defiance. It had been rough before, but after, it had been the Foxes’ tentative potential and Wymack’s steadfast denial of Riko’s reach that kept Kevin from returning to the Nest. 

Wymack didn’t understand, Kevin fumed. Riko had reach.

But as Riko didn’t reach, as the Foxes’ failures came from within, he had believed the coach. He had stayed. 

The silence had encouraged Kevin’s anxieties, not banished them. Even more, Neil’s true identity had scared him as badly as Tetsuji Moriyama’s offer during the winter formal. Coach Wymack seemed smaller by the day, and Neil’s skill on the court offered distraction, not protection. 

With Neil gone, all he had left was Moriyama’s offer. 

That wasn’t Neil’s concern. That had never been Neil’s concern. What Kevin Day did with himself was not connected to Neil Josten or Nathaniel Wesninski.

Except it was, it was, it was, Kevin was supposed to have succeeded. He should have had the world on a platter. He had everything Nathaniel could not.

He would return to the Ravens, and as long as Riko remained, Riko would win.

Before he’d snagged his first ride, he had shredded the Exy articles on Kevin and Riko. It hadn’t been as satisfying as he’d hoped, but it had marked the end of hope.

If he spilled not just what he knew of his father’s business, but also what he had experienced in the Nest, maybe he could afford to help Kevin for the last time. The suits might not care too much about an Exy team, but they had to know what people to call. Perhaps, if he made that his stipulation, they would lead an investigation.

It wouldn’t give the Foxes their championship, but it was something.  


. . .

  
When the police informed him that the feds were ten minutes away, he allowed himself to miss his team in one fierce moment.

He thought about how Matt brought him fruit during quiet Sunday mornings and his help in arranging Neil’s class schedule for maximum ease. He thought about Dan never giving up on her Foxes and how defensive she became at Kevin’s dismissal. He thought about Allison inviting him to movie night time and again, even after she’d learned he wouldn’t involve himself in her spat with Seth. He thought about Wymack, his patience and tenacity perfectly suited for those he sought to help. He thought about Nicky’s determination to make amends with his cousin after leaving him for Germany, and Renee giving him space without him having to ask. He thought about Aaron when he was with Katelyn, the kind way they treated each other, and Seth’s softened expression whenever Allison kissed him.

He hadn’t seen them since before Christmas. It was for the best - they didn’t need to know what a mess Riko had reduced him to. They’d already learned too much about him.

A black suited agent arrived, flanked by a shorter man and the department chief. After a preliminary questioning into his family history, Neil was told that he needed to go with them. They had a black suburban parked in the back; Neil clambered in the middle bench and found himself sandwiched between two more black suits, everything about him pale and worn thin in comparison.

They didn’t ask questions. They drove.  


. . .

  
And drove.  


. . .

  
And drove.  


. . .

  
They asked no questions and provided no answers. 

. . .

  
Outside the darkened windows, the sign for West Virginia came and went.  


. . .

  
“It’s only by my intervention that you’re alive.” Riko greeted him at the entrance of Evermore, his black hair and black eyes and black suit and black smile stark against the sky’s blue. “It would behoove you to thank me.

“We’ve a lot of work to do,” he continued as his father’s or uncle’s or by-the-hour agents saw Neil down Evermore’s steps, the grip on his shoulders tight as a vice. Unlike Andrew, they hadn’t given him a taste of wind beforehand. Unlike Jean, they didn’t spare a glance for the sky. 

Riko was still talking.

“My uncle agreed to take you under protective custody. You’ll play for the Ravens out of gratitude, of course.”

Of course.

They moved through the back halls away from prying eyes and open ears. Riko led them straight to his uncle’s office, a plush, grandiose construction of black and red complete with a dark wood desk and high-backed black leather chair. Faintly, as if through a haze, Neil recalled bleeding on the carpet as Riko and Tetsuji cajoled him to sign.

The papers were there again, crisp white on manila. Tetsuji was, too, his hands folded neatly in his lap and eyes cold on Neil’s entrance. Behind him, the agents bid greetings and thanks and swiftly took their leave.

Seated on the leftmost sitting chair, Kevin glanced over his shoulder. His eyes dodged both Neil and Riko’s, and he quickly turned back to the man he referred to as the Master.

This time around, Neil was instructed to sit. 

He’d been ready to die. He was ready to die. He wasn’t ready to be locked away to rot. He would play Exy as a Fox, but never as a Raven.

“If you have an objection,” Tetsuji’s calm voice informed him, “I believe your father’s bail is being placed for consideration soon.”  


. . .

  
Old fears won against new, a fact that lifted both Kevin and Neil’s hands to sign on.

Tetsuji had dismissed them with hardly a glance to either his adopted son or estranged recruit and they left that office as a trio. 

Riko, smile satisfied, clapped his hands together. Kevin, Neil noticed, flinched.

“Let us begin."

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hit me up at [unkingly](http://unkingly.tumblr.com/) if you like,


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